Devoid
by Certified
Summary: 1896. After decades of tranquility between east and west under a continent-wide republic backed by the Yggdist Church, peace begins to crumble under the weight of political ambitions and anarchist terrorism - Few are aware of the force beyond human comprehension at work to return chaos to Europa. Far fewer will be given the strength to fight back.


Prologue

Falkdon, Albion Province of the Republic of Europa

April 1896

"Only The Lord knows what inhuman thoughts lie behind their steele masques – Do not forget this, and proffer the Devoid no quarter." The Inquisitor reminded his fellow. He yawned and looked up to the Falkdon clocktower, where the two hands had just met at the Twelve, their ebony finish plainly visible against the steel back-panel reflecting the full moon.

"Oi, I've been down the grinder a score-plus-one times, by Woden I don't need a lecture on my job you blerry croaker." Agent Kaufman spat back. He picked at his eyes for a moment now that the clocktower bell had begun to toll in a low tone to announce the beginning of the citywide curfew. His fingers drew back from his eyes once more, now covered in built up rheum, and flicked them down into the gutter at his toes. "I'm more concerned about Stacker's gang – Seems half of the Syndicate be mad as hops for a gang war."

"Don't tell me you're paying the Chalked Cue another visit to catch them here boyos in the act, are you? Just not worth it, all the morons there are soaked in the sauce and you and me both know not even the damn shunters watch the pisshole any longer than they need to." The senior Inquisitor spat out. He yawned once more and held it for a solid five seconds, and this time aloud for half the neighborhood to hear. "I'll be headed on me way back to the bunkhouses. The Director of the Constabulary is set for parley with us tommorrow morning over our handling of the mess of incidents surrounding that Devoid, Lyons. I do so suggest that you take your leave and return to your quarters before sunup; we'll need all the muscle on hand to _accomadate_ Director LeClair during his visit." He saluted Kaufman same as he had previously when their routes linked five minutes previously. "By Lord Woden, the Republic shall prevail against the Demons, Heretics, and Witches cursed upon Midgard. May your loyalty to The Republic, The Lord, and Their People hold true, and may the Valkyrur hold by your side in these times of crisis."

"By Lord Woden, the Republic shall prevail against the Demons, Heretics, and Witches cursed upon Midgard. May your loyalty to The Republic, The Lord, and Their People hold true, and may the Valkyrur hold by your side in these times of crisis." Kaufman counter-saluted back to his senior Inquisitor. "Alas, I have obligations as of present to keep tabs on the Chalked Cue now that-" He sighed, realizing his reasoning was falling on deaf ears – Absent ones at that, now that the tenured Yggdist Inquisitor had made his exit.

The Inquisitor made his stride down Ainsworth Boulevard at a brisk, if not paranoid pace. The street lamps here were dead – Siphoned of all their Ragnite energy months ago, and in a neighborhood considered worse off enough that no civil engineer would dare step foot here with his gaspipes on intending to replace the filched cells. The only idea the Yggdist fanatic had of his predicament was what little illumination reflected between the clocktower and storefront windows. He whistled out the tune to an old naval shanty – No doubt learned while he was serving one of his tours with the great Navy of the Republic during the many wars between the Republic and the Confederation that had taken the lives and dignity of countless men. He halted for a moment and whipped his finger in front of his face a few times, no doubt trying to recall which exact chord came next in the tune – And no doubt the last mistake he would ever make in this corporeal realm.

His eyes rolled up slowly and his mouth draped like he had lost it. A final 'Uhhh...' groan came out of him, ending just before the red splotch at the center of his trenchcoat began to grow exponentially. The sound of my blade being torn from his spine sounded no more pleasant than a cheese-grater against pavement, its ring against my ears making even me cringe. I flicked the silver telescoping blade safely back into it's hilt and stuffed it down my pale cobalt camisole, snuggly between my breasts. I followed up and adjusted my silver, gray-trimmed coat, keeping it unbuttoned and loose enough to allow it to billow behind my movements. The late Inquisitor's pooling blood began to expand towards my winter thighboots, forcing me to recoil back as not to leave evidence of the act on my only pair of leggings.

"Anotha' goner down for the count in the name of Griffin Street gents, hehehe." One of the Griffin Street thugs that had been 'acompanying' me chuckled out. Typical Griffin Street, too cowardly to do it themselves, but all too eager to swoon like vultures whenever some poor sod got Ainsworth'd, like that Inquisitor had just now. I expected nothing less from _Darcsens_. "Cohen, check this slipshod here for me, will ya? Gotta have some good dosh on him, maybe some Speed too if we're lucky?" The thug dipped his hand straight into the pooled blood to loot the high-class Commissar's boots all Inquisitors wore. I shook my head at him as his friend Cohen dipped into the Yggdist enforcer's pockets for effects. The coat I wore may have originally belonged in an officer's wardrobe at some point, but I had the dignity to say that I didn't loot it off someone else's kill.

"Yes, do bathe yourselves in murder evidence. I'm sure Darcsens- No less Darcsens who They've been watching since forever for the slightest reason to lock up, will be the last person They suspect." I pointed out.

"_Excuse me_? You got a problem, ya goddamn harlot?" Cohen asked. He cracked his knuckles and whistled at me. The other thug by his side turned back to me – His hand darting out just as quick to fondle the exposed strip of skin between the top of my boots and the bottom lining of my skirt. I smashed my teeth together at the sudden burst of perversion out of the Grif Street cutpurse – not that this behavior was unexpected out of them, yet...

"You seem to have me confused for one of your many loose Darcsen women, Cohen." I retorted. I dug my hand into one of the inside pockets, looking for a solution to the thug's hand slowly ascending up my skirt. "If I was a harlot, wouldn't I expect payment before either of you touched the merchandise?" I muttered at the thug. He jerked back and fell with a loud thud in response to the bullet that had just gone straight through his head. I re-centered my aim now on Cohen's hand which now held a revolver looted from the dead Inquisitor.

"Cunt!" He snapped. "You're dead now, Lyons!" His thumb clocked back the hammer as he screamed out. Perhaps, either way, he was half a second late. The second shot out of my own revolver split his hand into two, forcing his other remaining hand to hold on for dear life to keep the other intact. I sighed at the Darcsen and holstered the revolver back into my coat, proceeding past Cohen without care. "You- You bitch! I'll kill you next time we meet!" He said to me one last time. I sighed again.

"Not if the local constabulary does you in first, Cohen." I replied. In between the combination of him being a Darcsen, having his gun-hand split into two flopping pieces, and him being covered in the blood of two different cadavers, I didn't think it would need to be said that any officer of the watch looking to beat a man to death would need no excuse if they saw Cohen at this moment. I straightened myself, blew away the smoke before the stench got into my coat, and turned away from Cohen. All he could do at this point was crawl away and whimper at the situation that was completely his fault. I had no need to complain at this result; I had places to be, people to meet – And Cohen was not one of them.

* * *

><p>"I heard LeFay was found dead not a minute after the Twelth Bell – Was the Grif Street gang that shanked him, if rumor is correct." I whispered to Blake across from me at the pub table. I could only see his hands and the glass of beer between them from under my hood, but all the better it was to not be seen by the unwanted guest from the Bureau of Inquisitors whom was <em>conversing<em> with the barkeep behind Blake. "By the way I heard it, he got lost and walked right into Grif Street territory on the wrong end of Ainsworth."

"Bloody Darcsens, seems a block truly does make a difference with them – But at least they don't leave their slum too often, do they?" Blake replied. He motioned the fingers in both his hands like a wave, sweeping from left to right with the tapping of his fingers – and then in reverse, over and over.

"You're dodging the point here, Blake." I grunted through my teeth. "He's been dealt with, I want the last half of my damn payment."

"Nothing walks past, does it?" He whispered back. I felt a handbag get nudged to my feet under the table, no doubt bearing the weight of fifty-odd Aurum, and then some. "Get yourself something nice" He began with a return to a normal voice. "With all these acts of violence going on, a woman ought be able to protect herself, right?" I grasped my forehead with how idiotic, not to mention suspicious he sounded. "Don't want to get mugged or worse going to that masquerade ball you were invited to, would you?"

I winced. The handbag at my feet held an envelope, an invitation no doubt – Although it being to a Masquerade Ball was however in question – which I scooped up to read. 'To the address of Lyons the Huntress of Falkdon, from prospective associates acting in the name of the Republic's future." I yawned at it, reviled by this method of contact. 'Lyons the Huntress', what a moronic moniker that was, and most certainly not one I ever picked or referred to myself as. Was 'Naomi Lyons' not good enough for some people? I put my thumb on the side and braced to rip it open.

"Oi... Don't open it here, too many peeping toms for too much sensitive writing." I sighed and put the envelope back in the handbag.

"Tell these 'Prospective Associates' that I don't take house-calls. The usual method only – Half the payment up front along with name and photograph of the bullseye. No funny business." I got up. Time for a drink before I lost my mind in between the past twenty or so bells of wake and the looming atmosphere of this bar. Word that boys from the Syndicate were itching to bash heads in was not helping either – Damn that ersatz Stacker to Niflheim, Falkdon was bad enough with a corrupt guild of Inquisitors and the old syndicate as it was before he got big and dragged half the chavs in the city to his band.

"You'll want to read it once you're home, Madame, a once in a lifetime opportunity to be had, if you don't take it I'm sure another will and be rich off what you could have had!" Blake exclaimed. I glared at him for a few seconds in disapproval and finally sat down at the bar next to junior Inquisitor Aiden Kaufman. Kaufman was an odd fellow, if you asked me or anyone else – He wasn't from Albion like the rest of us, and I'd heard in some circles that despite being one of the one-hundred, now ninety-nine, Inquisitors which upheld one of the strictest codes of Yggdism that he had a penchant for dressing as a woman from time to time. I didn't imagine it was particularly difficult for him, with the structure he had anyone could assume guising onesself as the opposite sex was, well, a _talent_, even if it had massive perverted implications on him that could get him expelled from the order. Or worse.

"Listen Mr. Ueno, I didn't come here all the way from Gallia province just to take shite from some bartender from the opposite equally craggy arse end of the planet." Kaufman warned the bartender. Kaufman crossed his arms and pressed back against his chest with a stern face. "I'll give you one more chance- Do you know where I can meet Lucas Stacker?" The Gallian accent made for what could have been the most grating voice my ears would be cursed with hearing. If Kaufman was trying to keep his business between himself and the bartender, he failed when _zat sick atsent_ drew the ears of everyone present.

"Or what? You going to haul me off to the Bureau on made up charges of heresy? I have dealt with worse situations, bish." Ueno countered.

"No, I'll save that for the night I don't get drinks on the house." Sir Kaufman rebuttled. Now... About your sister – Shiroko, right? I've heard rumors that she has been engaging in deviant behavior unfitting of a-"

"Why is it you think I would know where Stacker is and how to contact him, Inquisitor? Is this some kind of sick joke you insist on pulling on me every single night while extorting this establishment?" Ueno looked down below the bar where tally marks had been penned in for every single drink Kaufman had not paid for under threat of Ueno being sent to a re-education compound. He scratched a cross-mark over the third batch of four marks, bringing the total up to fifteen, which was just as many nights since Kaufman had gotten off the boat. And every single one of those nights, the question 'Where's Stacker' was asked. It was an amusing sight at first, a weight off the stress of 'work' or worse, finding out I wasn't the lowest bidder, but in barely a fortnight Kaufman had proven to be _quite_ the annoyance.

I looked back at the entrance to the pub, which was a rough distance from here, considering the pub was put in a rather sizable hollowed out section of a bunker dug during a previous era when the wars between Albion and the Confederation from across the pond often had the frontlines to our own coast. Speak of the devil- As Kaufman had predicted with the late senior-inquisitor LeFay, Stacker's boys were here to pick a fight with the present clique from Grif Street that used this place as their de-facto clubhouse. Perhaps if the Chalked Cue wasn't the only bar in town that didn't have a "Darcsens will not be served" plackard laying around it wouldn't have been a problem. Nonetheless, the Syndicate muscle made their presence known immediately. Bottles got smashed into blades, baseball bats tapped on the tables like drums, and a whole mess of waistcoat-pounding began, drawing the attention away from the intrepid Gallian and on to the native ruffians who came to bash skulls in.

"Say, what's a woman such as yourself doing out this late without an escort?" Kaufman asked me, looking at what he could see of my face that wasn't blocked by my hood. His tone was not for ignorance of what was occuring behind us, rather it came across to me as haughty, like the Inquisitor now saw his chance to prove his worth so he could outright squeeze _protection_ money out of Ueno while he was at it. The gangsters just glanced at Kaufman and sniggered, not even bothering to size up the deadbeat before they rushed in like dumb bricks. Just because I managed to off one of them who was hitting their late thirties and thought he was untouchable with a simple backstab didn't mean they all were – But I guess the quick spread of word of LeFay's death had seeded funny ideas within the Syndicate that the Inquisitors were soft.

The first of the five rushing Kaufman impaled himself on to Kaufman's dirk within three seconds of eyeing him. Merely shrugging off the weight of idiot number one's corpse, Kaufman's quickdraw was enough to catch three of the dumb lumps in a triple-penetrating shot. As for the last of them, it seems he didn't understand that the concept of centrifugal intertia didn't apply to bipeds. A simple misstep on one of his fallen brothers' legs, and he simply crushed his own throat slamming into the edge of the bar. Kaufman halted for a moment from the perturbing noise of the last man suffocating on his own collapsed throat and winced. No matter. A simple bullet through the cranium solved that ear grating sound. Across the room the remaining associates of the Syndicate backed off in reaction to the sight and attempted to bolt for the exit rather than continue their baseball-bat beating of the jumped Grif Streeters. The Inquisitor smirked and put his third round into the kneecap of one of the associates like it was nothing. An excellent performance from Kaufman no doubt, but I had yet to see if his prowess came from genuine skill, or just simply holding a gun like any other mook.

"Now look what you've done!" Ueno exclaimed. "Do you understand how much money it costs to deal with five dead people on my property?" I was surprised at that point that Kaufman didn't bother to take note of Ueno's response, considering that distinct lack of giving a shit unless it had a negative impact on us was our mark – Our brand – that always stood out and highlighted us as being from the Blackblades. Or as the Inquisitors had taken to referring to us as, the Devoid. As in 'Devoid of soul and humanity' by their arcane definitions and to be eliminated at all costs. We were hated and hunted solely for one reason – Because we didn't bow down to the tyranny of the 'Republic', nor did we flinch in the face of deeds that would make a 'Normal' person blast their grey-matter out to preserve their 'honor'. The Republic had gotten so desperate in recent months over our actions as professional assassins that they had begun to have the Inquisitors pull innocent men and women from their homes for summary execution just for displaying any traits that fell under their diction of "Anti-Social Behavior". In between me, Ueno, his sister Shiroko, Blake, and a few other misfits with an eye for Aurum mixed with the thick skin to kill a room full of men we were a force to be reckoned with, and being reckoned with we were.

"Oh. I apologize, Mr. Ueno." Kaufman resounded. The Inqusitor's fingers dipped into his wallet and pulled out the Aurum for no less than twenty drinks – No doubt a mere peek at the kind of salary Inquisitors got from the deep treasuries of the Yggdist church and the Republic – And offered it over to Ueno without hesitation. "I believe my business with you is concluded. If you do not mind me, I see Stacker's apprehension in the near future. Good night." Kaufman finished and curtseyed. He turned towards the wounded Associate and pulled out a pair of handcuffs from under his coat for the usual routine, audibly pleased by the Syndicate member who was ripe for an interrogation back at the Bureau.

"...An odd fellow, is he not?" Blake asked after the past minute of silence. He squinted at Kaufman for a moment and uttered "...Aha, I get it now..." under his breath.

"About time he paid his tab" Ueno plugged. Blake and I glanced at him for his cultural ignorance and then looked back to Kaufman one last time before he shut the door to the pub behind himself.

"Get what now, Blake? We've known since he got here that the freak crossdresses in some ironic violation of the laws on Heresy he is supposed to enforce. I just didn't expect him to _act_ the opposite sex like that in public." I blurted out. Whatever Blake was seeing, I certainly wasn't.

"You wouldn't bloody believe me if I told you what I'm thinking." He purred back with a blush on his face. Well, we were all chained together in our common goal, no sense in turning in the man to the Inquisition for outing himself as a homosexual. "Check that postcard when you are back at home, Lyons. I mean it."

"And what about the corpses strewn around the bar? Do you have any idea how hard it is to get bloodstains out of ebony?" Ueno asked once more unto us. "The customers do not want the smell of dried blood and the sight of corpses!"

"We don't care, Ueno. That's your problem. Go dump the stiffs out where the body carts will collect them like all the rest." Blake ordered. He looked out the front door for a moment and flipped the lock closed now that the patrons had vacated the pub.

"I'm checking out for the night, Blake, Ueno. I suppose we might mind about keeping an eye on Kaufman more than ever now. As for me, I'm going to get some well deserved rest back at home." I chimed. There was no reason to stay the night here. Too uptight, those two, too focused on 'The Business'. It was a wonder they hadn't blown their cover with how focused on their work they were. Unless, of course, Kaufman already knew and the past two weeks of his beligerency with Ueno was him scouting us out – That said he shouldn't have known about Shiroko Ueno off the top of his head like that, not without him actively seeking her out. Just another reason for us to focus our attention on him, before we had a full squad of Inquisitors smashing our doors down with rifles loaded and swords drawn.

* * *

><p>It had been at least three bells after midnight when I had finally reached the front door of Moreau Tower. Truth be told I was myself paranoid that someone might get the better of me on these dark and empty streets like I had with Inquisitor LeFay. Competition between the Blackblades and the Syndicate's more professional elements was beginning to get fierce, and truth be told the Syndicate's army of hoodlums had a bit more than <em>just<em> a manpower advantage against our small band of career assassins. I pulled my hood down back into my coat and pushed through the front door to the apartment complex, and then gently shut the door behind me.

I gave myself a moment to relax my eyes from the transition between black streets into the bright ivory tiled walls lit up to full brightness. It was mostly dead in here as well – Most of the tenants had been in bed for five hours by now, if not longer. Such were the lives of the factory owners, the shareholders, and other folks ranging from bankers to lawyers who had not worked an honest day of their lives but instead got their money through the typical method – Inhertitances. Had I been daft like the other nintety-nine percent of this city and anyone who gave Stacker the time of day, I would have assumed that I was the only person here who had ever truly done work with their hands and not their financials. It didn't help that Moreau Tower's most vocal resident, a Mr. Galt, was convinced of various ideas that began to sound more and more _fucking retarded_ the more I thought about them. Just another parasite who liked to refer to everyone who wasn't him as the parasites. Typical.

"Bonsoir, Madame Lyons. Penthouse, I presume?" The operator by the elevator asked. I nodded and walked into the open elevator. As it had been the several times before, it was dusty and unbearable, unbefitting that someone of my class had to endure the forty-five second ascent to the thirtieth floor. At least I wasn't acting my class in that piss-drenched hole in the ground called the Chalked Cue.

"Coming through!" Another woman's voice cried out from behind me. I heard her feet finally land in the elevator right behind me. Whoever this was, she didn't sound like Shiroko, no, whoever she was she was no immigrant. Praise Woden. I was getting unbelievably tired of Shiroko pronouncing my name as 'Nowhmee'. I looked at this mystery woman for a moment and fell into a state of beffudlement. Her hair was of a shade I had long associated with that of an aged woman who had gotten to the point of parasitizing off of the Republic's Social-Insurance system. The tone of her skin was not far from a corpse's, yet somehow surpassed the intended beauty that many of the guady noblewomen of Faldkon strived for, and the color of her eyes came off as something of more diabolical origin than that of a human's. Color me surprised for once that the Inquisitors really weren't pulling _everything _from their arseholes, considering her appearance was exactly as what the Inquisition's handbooks referred to as a witch. Had I not fallen under the Inquisition's bollocks definition of "Demon", or rather a "Devoid", and thus in the same damned boat as this woman, I would have turned her in then and there for her summary execution. Not on account of her being a 'witch', mind, but her holding of the elevator for an extra five seconds had gotten _quite_ on my nerves. Despicable. At least Shiroko had the decency to use the stairs when I was a distance ahead of her and already present in the elevator.

"Pardon me, you are?" I asked the _witch_ as the elevator door closed behind us. I _tried_ to hide my disgust with her, to a degree of success I could not judge.

"Corrine Elsinaire." The witch gleefully sang with a smile. She winked and tapped two of her fingers against the side of her head. "But don't worry, you don't need to introduce yourself – It has been a _long _time, hasn't it, Hildy?" Even for me, her voice was... Cute... Yet awfully juvenile for someone who appeared to be her age. And who was Hildy?

"You must have me confused, Miss Elsinaire. I am Naomi Lyons." I corrected. Corrine just giggled for a moment like a child and crossed both her hands over her heart. I shook my head and clasped my off-hand over my forehead.

"Oh, Naomi Lyons?" She asked. "I apologize, Naomi." She tilted her head ever so slightly and closed her eyes. I didn't get the point of this display, nor why she was approaching me to begin with. I sighed and looked at the elevator door. We were three or so seconds behind schedule on this ride, and my self control was rapidly deteriorating with the presence of this annoying woman. "I can tell you are on the road to do _great things_, Naomi." Her eyes opened once more to reveal again their demonic hue.

"I do great things on a daily basis, Child" I reminded Corrine. She whimpered back at me and stepped out of the elevator, holding her clasped hands down to her waist. I sighed at her appeal to emotion, utterly worthless it was, and readjusted my coat. "For your own sake, do not forget yourself." I said – 'Corrine Elsinaire' her name was, and I began to recall whom she was to the best of my memory.

"That's not nice" Corrine pleaded to me in a pathetic, childlike voice. "I'll let you know that I'm-"

"Just another bastard daughter to the pathetic shell of a leader that Fhirald calls a 'king'. Your name is spoken from time to time in circles looking to blackmail the Republic through whichever means they deign to be a hole in the confidence of our politicians. Whatever threat you had queued up against me is moot." I interrupted the bar-sinister's jab at me. "You are the spawn of some courtesan, and I am-"

"The elder sister of Augustus Lyons, military governor of Jerithia. Your name is spoken of from time to time in circles of those wishing to bring about change in the Republic, looking to use _any_ means necessary in pursuit of a new order." I winced at her a moment. Was my cover blown? Was I at risk of the present danger going from 'Hunted by Inquisitors without official sanction' to 'Enemy of the state'? No use in spilling Corrine's blood here right in front of my door – Perhaps a good shove out of an open window would suffice. "That letter in your purse – Now that's an _interesting_ little thing, isn't it?" I gritted my teeth and stabbed my key into the door of the penthouse. This was going _beyond_ strange. Nope. No more. I didn't want anything to do with this. I looked back at where Corrine _was – _Now only thin air held her place, as if she had never been there to begin with.

I sighed and closed the penthouse door behind me, locking up with the chain included this time out of a paranoia that the daughter-of-a-whore had a penchant for breaking and entering. I hung my purse and coat up next to the door. For a moment I considered opening the letter from the 'prospective associates', and would have at that point if not for the disturbing mystique around it. I shook my head and looked around at the uniform ivory-tiled walls of my penthouse suite – My eyes squinted down from the reflecting light as I made my way to my bedroom. I looked into the guest bedroom to see Shiroko fast asleep in her with her black nightgown on and felt a warm feeling come about me. I shrugged off the feeling and went to my bedroom to undress and sleep the rest of the night off.

"Corrine Elsinaire." I whispered to myself. "What's her game here?" I asked in turn. Entranced by the thought, I put the letter given to me by Blake on my nightstand where I could look to it and give myself something to think on as I undressed. My thighboots came off first as I conspired about what conspiracy fate was conspiring to lop me into. Corrine's mention of people wishing to bring about change gave me thoughts of the recent seperatist movement in the province of Gallia, but it didn't make sense one bit for the Gallians to contact someone who didn't operate locally. A simple swift motion I had done many times before removed me of my cobalt-whitish camisole and with a slight bit more effort my tartan red-with-green skirt was on the floor as well, leaving me with just my bare skin from top to bottom. Try as I might to admire my own pure and slim form, free from the panty and brassier lines that I had noted Shiroko to be plagued by, I couldn't shake the thoughts that I was on the edge of falling into some trap. Blake was usually never gay for 'once in a lifetime opportunities', and not once before did I have some random pedestrian, especially not one of particular note that was a bastard daughter, be able to so easily note what I had in my possessions.

I growled in anger at myself, unable to come to a conclusion on whether or not taking up the 'prospective associates' on their offer was a viable idea or not. Just thinking about it made it impossible for me to appreciate myself in the mirror after a string of jobs well done during my past two days of wake. There would be no self-indulgence or other explorations to the thought of my beloved in bed tonight – the creeping suspicion was an overbearing darkness, clouding all thoughts not beheld to its subject. My naked body collapsed on to my bed without thought, and within mere seconds I passed out from the accumulated two days of exhaustion I had been fending off as I had fulfilled a week's worth of 'tests' issued to me as part of my request to transfer to a higher-status position in the guild in a fraction of the time that had been asked of me. That was the last thing that had crossed my mind as I slipped through the hole between my physical consciousness and the state of lucid dreaming I always had whenever I made it through yet another high-stakes contract on the streets of Falkdon. Was the letter the final test? An invitation to visit the new guild post I had been transferred to?

Either way, the only thing I knew for certain is that letter was about to change everything.


End file.
